My Vega, Your Altair
by onetimetrip
Summary: Her life is too colorless. His life is too colorful. When two unlikely people wish upon a shooting star on a certain night, their lives intertwine in the most absurd way possible: body switching.
1. Chapter 1

**The temptation to write is hard to ignore.**

 **Inspired by the preview of an upcoming Japanese animated movie "Kimi no Na wa".**

* * *

 _Date: Sunday, 13th July._

* * *

I don't know why, but some mornings, when I wake up, I find myself crying.

I do not feel particularly sad or overjoyed about anything. Neither do I have any plausible reason to cry. I don't have an answer. At all.

And today is one of those mornings.

I touch my wet cheeks. Yes, there is no mistake. I am crying.

Clambering out of my bed, I continue to wipe away the flowing tears. No, they just do not stop. I clap both hands over my eyes, and slowly, I stand up. I walk towards my full-length mirror and stare at my reflection.

It feels very strange.

I rub my eyes.

No, they are not stopping.

My body just does not listen to what I say.

Why am I crying, I ask myself out loud.

No one answers.

I take a wad of tissues from my bedside table and dab my eyes. Slowly, slowly, the uncontrollable tears lessen little by little, and when they finally stop, I give out a sigh of relief.

Cool down, I say, while taking in a deep breath. There's school today, and it is not in my place to freak out over a crying session.

Following after, I hold my long bunches of hair that tangles and twists between my fingers. Quit it, I mutter, to the infuriating blonde mess. Today is not the day for a bad hair day.

I wash up. Greet my parents a good morning. Eat my breakfast. The daily morning routine.

"Take care, Ki-chan." My mother says as she stands at the door. Ki-chan. That's what my mother calls me. My full name is Kimiko Lefevre. I'm a half-Japanese, half-French.

I ready my bike. After waving my mother a quick good bye, I start pedaling away, zipping past my neighbors' well-kept gardens, the old convenience store, the bakery, the small river, and other familiar sights.

"Yellow!"

I turn my head around, just to see my best friend approaching me on her own bike. As she fights against the wind, her long wavy brown hair flow behind her, looking so smooth that I am almost jealous. How in the world does she make her hair appear so beautiful?

Blue! I exclaim.

Aoi Fujioka finally catches up to me, and she leans backwards, panting and panting.

"Morning." She musters in between breaths.

It's rare for you to be early. I say.

"Oh, don't mention it." She utters. "Were you crying?"

Is it that obvious? I say as I subconsciously touch my cheeks.

"Well, your eyes are swollen. How many times has it been?"

I don't know. I reply as I bite my lower lip.

"Anyways, don't think too much about it. Such a thing comes and goes."

I nod my head.

All through the ride, a single thought lingers in my mind.

Why did I cry?

* * *

I don't know why, but some mornings, when I wake up, I find myself crying.

Why? I say. Why did I cry for no reason?

"No, that is quite a contradiction." Green says as he twirls his pen. "You cry _because_ there is a reason."

Right now, Midori Okumura, aka Green, and I are in the school library, devoid of living beings other than the impossibly quiet librarian as well as ourselves. Looking out of the window, I stare off towards the horizon, where the sun is dipping into the ocean, as if the world is ending before my eyes. I flit my eyelids, and rest my chin upon my palm, as I sigh. Meanwhile, Green pays no heed towards the sun, he simply lets the breeze blow onto his face, and the warm, orange sunlight to freely flow into the library.

Talking about Green, I suppose I shall introduce him. He's a friend, and can be termed to be a childhood friend. Him and I having such a relationship is purely coincidental. We have been neighbors. For how long, is not something I dwell on.

Green's face has a pretty shape, and his features far from regular. Handsome, or perhaps hot, might describe him best. He's the school's popular good-looking guy, loved by many, but not loving anyone. If I am to describe him in depth, the word frivolous sounds just about right.

In his other free hand, a long, freshly sharpened pencil was held between his fingers. The pencil was red, striped, and has a perfectly round rubber at the end. He just twirls it, for no particularly reason, just like how I cry for no particular reason. Truthfully, he has no reasons whatsoever to be twirling two stationary at the same time. Rubbing my neck, I close my eyes and start to submerge myself in my own sea of thoughts.

"So, why did you cry?" Green asks. I shrug my shoulders, not turning to look at him.

"Love-sickness?" He suggests the most absurd things sometimes. I shake my head in denial.

I'm not in love or anything, I assert.

"You never know, Akashi-kun." Green says, giving a small smile. "The most unexpected things come to you at the most unexpected times."

Oh. I dully reply.

Silence drift about between us. Him twirling his pen and pencil. Me looking out of the window. The pages of the book pressed beneath my elbow flutters, its soft edges flapping onto my skin, gently, endearingly. I turn my head back and glance at the words for a few short seconds.

To be frank, I have not read it. Not even one word. It is an instrument of deception. So that I can justify myself to be in the library, as well as to give myself a good reason to stay in this warm and cosy place. For Green, he does what he wants to, anytime, anywhere. He's frivolous, like I say.

"What book did you take this time?" He asks, his fingers still twirling the pen and pencil. I wonder if his fingers will ever get tired.

Not so sure. I reply, before I finally bother to turn to the cover.

 _Votre nom._

"French, I see." He say, finally setting the stationary down.

I nod my head.

The pages flutter, into a perfect fan shape, as the words fly straight towards me. I take them in.

I pause.

I wonder what the title meant.

* * *

 **In some ways more than one, I was also inspired by Murakami. Just started reading Kafka on the Shore, and so far, it is a joy to read.**

 **Anyways.**

 **Yellow - Kimiko Lefevre**

 **Blue (Female) - Aoi Fujioka**

 **Green (Male) - Midori Okumura (taken from my Pokemon one-shot: Roscoe X Storia)**

 **Red - Akashi Akiyama (again, taken from Roscoe X Storia)**

 **Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

_Date: Monday, 14th July_

* * *

There's an unfamiliar ceiling right above me.

Surely, this isn't my room.

All I see is a plain white color, mundane and uninteresting. The ceiling light is of a circular shape, the normal kind that you see in normal households.

I try to blink my eyes. Yet my eyelids refuse to budge.

I try to turn my head to the side. And again, nothing bothers to move.

My legs listen to no one.

My whole body stays fixed onto the bed, which, by the way, feels really comfortable.

Is this what you call a Kanashibari?

Am I going to be stuck here, left in this state for all eternity?

No, no, that's not going to happen.

Ah.

I can lift my arms.

My hands appear before my wide-opened eyes, both turning drier and drier by the second. A wave of relief washes over me, reassuring me that I am not suffering from sleep paralysis. My arms extend out, and I start wiggling my fingers, while immersing myself in this strange feeling.

It is a strange feeling. A feeling of isolation. A feeling of difference.

I feel... new.

My muscles feel more toned, more solid, and certainly much stronger, as compared to my original insubstantial biceps. My arms are longer, tanner. I stare at both palms, trying to comprehend this very queer situation. My hands, they are larger, a lot larger. Large enough to hold a basketball with just one hand.

My drying eyes focus on my wiggling fingers. My fingers.

My ...?

The air surrounding me freezes at the very moment I realize what kind of situation I am in.

This isn't my body.

This isn't me.

I gasp, an empty noise sounding from my- no, someone else's throat. No, this person can't speak. Or is it me, who can't speak?

I flex the biceps. I wiggle the fingers. No doubt, this is the body of a male. A physically strong male.

Cool down. I tell myself. Or am I still me?

This is all so confusing. It is as if a thousand things are forcing their way into my brain, churning and twisting, distorting my reality, pulling my world apart.

My head, or what seems to be my head, starts throbbing, millions of hammers knocking onto my skull, repeatedly, endlessly.

Who is this person?

Where am I?

Who am I?

Am I still Kimiko?

Am I still Yellow?

This isn't real.

This is all a dream.

All a dream.

* * *

There's an unfamiliar ceiling right above me.

The first thing I established is, I am not in my room. That is a given. The ceiling is way too blue, the squarish ceiling light that is encased in bamboo and rice paper is too old-styled to be found in a modern household.

I can breathe. I can open and close my mouth. But my vocal cords don't seem to be working.

My legs are impossibly stiff, as if something is chaining them down, preventing me from running.

My neck, shoulders, basically my whole body are in the same predicament. Except for my arms.

My pupils shift to very left, then to the very right, and I manage to catch a glimpse of a quaint little study table, plus a pale beige wall, where a few posters are hung neatly in a row.

I strain my eyes to look at the posters in detail, and to my surprise, they are not posters.

Drawings.

They are drawings of animals, people, landscapes, dreamlike settings, all things possible mixed into 5 medium-sized canvases.

If my vocal cords are working, I may have said, "Beautiful."

But I cannot.

Only my arms are maneuverable.

I move them slightly, before I find myself grabbing something.

I stretch my arms up, the bunch of hair within my grip. My eyes widened, as I witness myself holding onto long strands of sunshine blonde hair, long enough to reach my waist if I am to stand up. I rub the hair between my fingers, dumbfounded and spellbound by the breathtaking color.

It has the color of sunflowers. A rich, golden yellow.

Then I notice my hands. In shock, I drop the hair down in a split second.

They are, way too slender.

I scrutinize them. The shape, the size, the fairness, the flexibility.

So dainty, so fragile, so small.

I glance at my forearms. I study the pale skin tone, the thinness.

These are a girl's arms, a girl's hands, a girl's hair.

A girl's body.

My cheeks start to burn, a tingling sensation scalding the skin. A girl's body.

And just like how every guy will act, I willingly touch the chest.

...

No, they are flat. As flat as a washboard.

For various reasons, I feel disheartened. Until realization struck me.

This is a girl's body.

This isn't my body.

Panic starts to overwhelm me, my mind befuddled and deep in the waters. No doubt, this is my mind. No one else.

Or is it?

Calm down, Akashi Akiyama. I tell myself. You are you.

But what about the body?

Who is this girl?

Where am I?

Why am I here?

No, think rationally. Think, Red, think!

A dream.

That's it.

This isn't real.

This is all a dream.

A dream.

* * *

 **If you are enjoying this story so far, do follow and review :)**


	3. Chapter 3

_Date: Monday, 14th July_

* * *

I had the most unrealistically realistic dream this morning.

Aoi leans towards me, her back arching forward as she rests her head onto my desks, one hand holding a packet of juice, the other lazily hanging down from her shoulders.

"A dream?" She says, before she bites on the straw and starts drinking. "What kind of dream?"

Looking sideways to ensure that no one can hear us, I purse my lips, and then stare straight into Aoi's hazel eyes. She blinks in reaction to my sudden seriousness.

I was in a boy's body. I say firmly.

Aoi gape at me, her hand still holding onto her juice, yet the straw appears limp, crunched and twisted in odd ways from her prolonged biting. Her eyes seems to shine in surprise, its brown hue looking especially bright.

Recovering from her reverie, she clamps her teeth back onto the plastic straw, chewing it without stopping.

"That's some crazy dream. How did it felt like?" Aoi says through her teeth.

You believe me? I exclaim, feeling rather out of touch with reality all of a sudden.

"You're not the type to lie, Yellow." Aoi smiles warmly.

I blush and mutter my thanks. I blush very easily, apparently.

It felt very real. Too real, in fact. I describe. I could see the hands, wiggle the fingers and flex the muscles, very naturally.

"How toned were the muscles?" Aoi says with a playful look. She gets interested with the opposite sex very easily.

Quite. I assume. The body felt firm, and strong.

"Mmm. Strong. I like that." Aoi says as her starry eyes stare far off into the distance, her mind entering a daydream state.

Stop it. I chide as I start blushing all over again. It was just a dream.

"Or is it?" Aoi questions. "You said it was realistic."

Unrealistically realistic. I repeat.

"But it was very realistic." She says. "So realistic that it felt unrealistic."

I nod.

"Why, that is a difficult conundrum. Oh, my sweet Yellow, how it has troubled you so." She says the sentence dramatically while she closes her eyes and places her left hand onto her forehead.

I'm not... all that troubled. I say, blushing madly.

"What if it was real?" Aoi asks, leaning close onto me, her face hungering for an answer. "What if, you really became that boy?"

If it really was real, it means that I have switched bodies with someone else, and scientifically, it is not possible to do so. It is a dream. I say indignantly.

"Oh, don't be so stiff. This is just a hypothetical question." Aoi laughs heartily. "Now, now, what will you have done if that dream, was not a dream?"

I fidget a little, and interlace my fingers, rub my palms, and looking away from Blue, I answer with a soft, timid voice.

I want to find out who he is.

* * *

I had the most unrealistically realistic dream this morning.

"You say some really odd things." Green says as he twirls the same red pencil in his left. The same, freshly sharpened pencil with the rubber end. It spins and spins, spinning and spinning in and out of the gaps between his fingers. He has a flawless way of spinning: no wasted movement, no hiccups along the way. He could go on for days.

Then, I had the most realistically unrealistic dream yesterday. I say, without batting an eye.

Green quirks an eyebrow, before he deftly throws the pencil sideways, his right hand catching it effortlessly, the transition so smooth and fluid that one will marvel. Not me. I am too accustomed to his tendencies.

He throws it again. And catches it. And spins it. The cycle continues as he stares at me. His gaze is very telling. He wants me to continue talking.

I sigh, out of lethargy.

I am tired. I did experience a psychologically exhausting dream, and a whole day of school. My brain cells are depleted.

I get tired easily, apparently. People often say my good looks are wasted on me, since I always have this perpetual lazy countenance. Not like I can change my face's default expression.

I solemnly gaze downwards at my millionth tool of deception. A book filled with Japanese Haikus.

It felt strange and weird. I was in a girl's body. Quite believable. I say.

"That is one horrible haiku." Green comments, bewilderment all over his face.

Please, take me seriously. I sigh.

"Well then, congrats for awakening your sexual desires." He says blandly, his pencil spinning and spinning, never ending.

I'm serious. I say.

"So am I. Serious about not believing you, I mean." He replies nonchalantly.

I threw my eraser at him. It hits squarely onto his forehead.

"Ow." He says, losing his grip on his pencil. It clatters onto the smooth wooden planks of the library, its freshly sharpened tip broken.

He glares at me, before he bends down to pick up the stationary.

Within seconds, he starts to spin it again. As if nothing happened.

Hey. I say irritably.

"What?" He clicks his tongue. "I just congratulated you. Isn't that enough?"

I'm serious. I really was in a girl's body. I insist.

"Oh really." He says sarcastically.

It'll really help if you believe me. I say indifferently, too familiar with this attitude of his.

He sets the pencil down, and then with one elbow on the table, he presses the rubber end of the pencil onto his left temple, giving me a long look.

"Okay, okay. So? How did this girl look like?" He finally inquires.

I couldn't see the face. I only know that she has long blonde hair, tiny hands and can probably draw well.

"In other words, you don't know who she is?"

Yes. I reply.

"And so, you want to know who she is." He concludes.

Yes.


	4. Chapter 4

_Date: Friday, 13th June_

* * *

If I were to go back to a month ago, my life can be described to be colorless.

I gaze at my canvas, my right arm frozen in mid air as I falter again and again. Tightening my hold onto the size 5 acrylic brush, I grit my teeth out of frustration. My brush moves up and down in short breaths, retracting again and again, further and further away from the easel as my mind undergoes a heartwrenching process of choosing which colors I want to place onto the colorless canvas.

It feels as if I am facing a mirror that is reflecting my life. The canvas is blank. It waits for someone to apply colors onto it. My life is no different. It is a blank. And similarly, it is waiting for someone to make it interesting.

I feel horribly angry, horribly upset, and horribly angsty. It is funny for me to have so many unwonted emotions bottled up inside me, and to have it torture me so at this very moment. I am usually calm inside, but today, the everyday calm I had within me, is becoming the calm before the storm.

I want to lament about something. To someone. I want to lament about how lifeless my life is.

The town I live in, is a place of dread, dreams and drama. It is as sleepless as the nearest megalopolis, and as sleepy as the farthest countryside. Dreams that come true here are not within my reach, and dramas that occur here are too mundane to view.

I change my statement. The town I live in, is a place of dread.

I thrust my brush towards the edge of the palette, where the glob of red paint was squashed and it writhes around, mixing with the nearby yellow glob. I grind my brush, harder and harder. The colors interlace with each other, forming a substandard orange that has streaks of yellow and red sloshing within it. Exasperated, I throw both the brush and the palette onto the seat next to me.

Please let something interesting come into my life and paint it with rainbows. I pray fervently in my head.

I stand up abruptly, while the chair is pushed backwards, producing a scratchy, metal sound deafening to the ears. Following after, I storm towards the table, where little containers of oil paints are scattered around, the hurricane of colors sweeping across the rough wooden surface. A single retro type of radio sits snugly in the eye of the rainbow disaster, a film of dust covering the speakers. This has been here in the art room for ages, and is hardly used by anyone. I am not a radio fan, plus, I am the only student in the art club for the last 2 years. It is no wonder that it looks lonely in that tiny little spot.

With a finger, I press the switch to the radio, wanting to have a change of pace to calm the brewing storm inside of me. The radio stays motionless for a while, until the speakers vibrate, and a crackling noise is amplified towards me.

"...zzzz... Three months ago, Tanegashima Space Centre has announced... zzzzz... incoming comet that is only seen in a thousand years... zzzz... estimated to be seen in Japan's night sky..zz... the seventh night of July...zzzz... people has dubbed that date to be 'A Night of Wishes', as meteors will be seen all over Japan... zzz... "

Seventh night of July. I whisper to myself, making a mental note while I'm at it.

I decided.

On the seventh night of July, I will wish upon a shooting star.

* * *

If I were to go back to a month ago, my life can be described to be iridescent.

"Front! Front!" Green yells, his right hand that is high above his shoulders waving wildly as he shouts at me. I dribble the ball, my eyes darting left and right as sweat trickles down my forehead.

The two players from the opposing team formed a human barricade, preventing me from passing the basketball to my teammates. I pant, side-stepping many a times as I continuously evade their attempts to snatch the ball. It is a blessing that I have large hands.

I exhale, calmly analyzing the situation.

The moment my eyes pick up the loophole in their defenses, I bend down quickly, weaving through the two-man barrier. And as expected, they leap backwards, blocking me yet again.

I feel calm. Exceptionally calm today.

Doing a spin, I distanced myself from the two and did a swift jump that sets me hovering in mid air for approximately two seconds. That amount of time was perfectly sufficient for me to throw the ball.

My hands feel good. Exceptionally good today.

The rubber texture of the ball's surface scrapes against my skin. The basketball flies away from my fingertips.

It arcs over the many players, pairs of eyes following the ball as it drops into the hoop without much of a sound. Then it lands onto the ground with a bounce that signals the end of the game.

Green stares at me, with mouth wide open. He flails his arms, an action unlike his character, as he gallops towards me in a flurry. He gapes at me, opening and closing his mouth in wordless exhilaration. My teammates crowd around me, high-fiving me consecutively, causing my palms to feel sore and raw.

The whole stadium cheers in exuberance, sparklers going off in a shower of red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple.

It feels as if I am viewing my own life running across me at full speed. The colors. The excessive colors.

The excitement in me dies down immediately, without warning.

Green and the rest continue to cheer. Not me. I have the uncontrollable urge to get out from the colors, from all these colors sloshing before my eyes. The rainbows are going to drown me.

"Akashi- no, Red! No matter what anyone says, you're the MVP today!" Coach Okumura bellows. The old man beams at me, his toothy grin reflecting the stadium's light, but I can't return a grin as bright as his. Instead, I turn the corners of my mouth up, just this slightly.

"Group huddle!" The captains yells, his voice already hoarse from all the throat-killing cheers. My teammates rush towards him, while I stone there, blinking my eyes.

I can't see anyone.

The colors are overlapping. All the red, all the orange, all the yellow, all the green, all the blue, all the purple. They are covering my sight, blinding my vision.

I cover my eyes with both hands.

It's black. I whisper to myself.

Please let something interesting come into my life and paint it with white. I beg in my head.

"Hey, Akashi! Come!" Green shouts over the thick, bubbling noise.

 _Three months ago, the news of an approaching comet is known throughout Japan. The long awaited "Night of Wishes" is coming._

I walk towards them.

 _On the seventh night of July._

Towards the sloshing colors.

 _I decided._

 _On the seventh night of July, I will wish upon a shooting star._


	5. Chapter 5

_Date: Tuesday, 15th July_

* * *

I'm here again.

And again, I am unable to move any part of the body, except for my hands.

I stare at my palms. The large palms that are not mine.

This is a dream, I tell myself. Soon, I'll wake up, and I will be lying on my futon* and the first I will see is my room's ceiling. Then, I do the daily morning routine, and go to school without any trouble.

I gaze at the plain white ceiling with the same round light.

A pristine kind of tranquility persists, tickling my nerves as I waited for myself to wake up, back into reality. I lift my arms and examine the hands again out of curiosity.

My hands are really small compared to this person's ones. I thought to myself.

I fixed my eyes upon the fingers. They are long, strong, powerful, and the pale pink nails are trimmed immaculately. They are rather rough, a tiny bit bumpy, but still bigger, stronger than mine. These are no hands of a grown man, and neither are they hands of a child.

He may be similar to me in terms of age.

How tall is he?

How does he look like?

As these various thoughts intrude my mind, a sudden warmth envelops my chest, or his chest, whichever it may be. I am positive that I am, or he is, blushing.

I clench the hands. Yes, they feel strong. I pinch the skin, the slight pain feeling so realistic that I start doubting myself again.

Breathing in deeply, I gather my courage, and slowly, the hands came into contact with the person's face. The touch feels electric, so surreal and distinguished that my heart speeds up at that very instant. I slide my fingers across the cheeks, across the nose bridge, across his smooth forehead. His skin is unblemished, so even and polished that it feels like the skin of a woman. I rub his narrow eyebrows that are wide apart, before the fingers dance over his long eyelashes. Then I outline his eyes, guessing it to be of an almond shape, and drums over his nose that is straight and outwards at the perfect angle. I prod at every corner of his face, from his sharp jawline, to his thin lips.

I piece the bits and parts together, and within my brain, I picture his face.

My heart skips a beat.

My index fingers halts right at the center of his lips.

I blush, all over again.

If I am not mistaken, he is one good-looking person.

My mind goes blank as I stare absent-mindedly at the ceiling, my thoughts fluttering away, like that of butterflies under a beautiful summer sky.

Until the sound of an alarm rings, causing me to sit up in shock.

I frantically turn to my left and to my right, before I finally spot the alarm clock that is jumping up and down in excitement. Flustered and confused, his arms went into all directions. I do not know how to operate an alarm clock. Back in my town, we don't have alarms, since we are all so sleepy and sleepless and everyday.

The annoying ringing noise hit my eardrums, and finally enough with it, I slam it down hard, before I retract his arms in pain.

The alarm continues to ring.

I had accidentally poked myself with the blunt decoration. I let out a soft and low whimper, until my mind goes blank yet again.

I finally discovered what kind of situation I am in.

I move the neck up, down, left, right.

I shift his legs.

I shrug his shoulders.

I can move.

I open his mouth, gasping, and gently touch his Adam's apple.

I want to hear his voice.

I inhale, a gush of feverish eagerness compelling me to try talking. I press the matured protrusion of his throat, as if it is a button that switches on his vocal cords.

"Hello?"

I blink in surprise.

This is my voice.

I spin 360 degrees, surveying my surroundings.

I am back in my room.

I am not lying on my futon, I am not seeing any ceiling.

I am already standing up, standing in front of my study table.

I clap my hands, my small hands, over my wide-opened mouth.

"No way." I breathe.

* * *

I'm here again.

I shut my vision.

This is a dream. I remind myself in my head. All a dream. Soon, I'll wake up and treat it as if nothing happened.

I try to sleep. No, that is incorrect. No one sleeps while they are dreaming. It should be the other way round. People dream when they sleep.

Yes, that's right. I am sleeping now.

This is a dream, this is a dream, this is a dream... I drone in my head.

Nothing happens.

I open my, or her, eyes. There isn't much to see, really. Maybe except for the stellar drawings this girl had pasted on her wall. I strain my eyes to look at my very left. These are her eyes, not mine, straining it a little won't hurt me.

Beautiful.

The same thought echoes in my mind. There is no denying that her drawings are one of the most stunning ones I have seen in the long while. They have a certain charm, each piece seducing me to look at them longer. There is the deer with antlers that spiral around fluffs of flowers, the forests filled with colors of four seasons, the night skies dotted with stars and auroras, the dipping sun that dives into the sea. Five, detailed pieces in total, and all of them pulls me into each and every one of their respective fantastical worlds.

No dream can be as vivid, as detailed and as realistic as this one.

Unless, this is not a dream.

I grab her blonde hair, running her fingers through it as they flow through the gaps of her tiny hands like a waterfall.

Then I notice something.

Stains on her hands.

I bring them closer to me, and discern them to be paint. Acrylic, possibly.

She must love art a lot. I discern.

Is she as young as me?

I study her hands. Its fairness and smooth texture are enough to tell me that she is young. But how young, is something not known to me.

How does she look like?

This single question remains in my head for quite some time, as I ponder and ponder about it, a growing, burning desire eating at me.

I try to contain it. Stop it. This is only a dream.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to keep track of time. There is no ticking of the clock, no beeping of a watch to tell me when.

I must have gave up halfway, because now I am trying to decide how many minutes, or hours, have passed without myself knowing.

I crack the neck out of habit. It is feeling sore and stiff after ages of staying still.

I pause, my breathing forced out of rhythm immediately.

I can move.

I scramble out of the soft futon, all the way to the quaint study table.

What is this?

What is this?

What is this?

Isn't this just a dream?

I gasp. I want to shout, until I find myself back in a familiar place.

I am clutching my left wrist, a painful feeling lingering in my left palm.

The alarm is ringing.

I widen my eyes, realization dawning upon me.

* * *

We have switched bodies.

* * *

 ***futon: Traditional Japanese bedding**


	6. Chapter 6

_Date: Friday, 18th July_

* * *

I have been catching glimpses of that ceiling for five straight mornings.

After the second occurrence, I dared not tell anyone about it, even my parents. But Aoi managed to see through me very quickly.

I told her, albeit very reluctantly.

She actually believed me. My nonsensical story.

Yes, it's nonsensical. It's too weird, too creepy, and too impossible to happen, and hard to wrap one's head around it, but it did.

It happened.

Five times.

Hence, by now, I am very much convinced that body switching is somehow possible.

Throughout all five occurrences, both of us do not know each other's identities, each other's location, each other's appearance. For me, I have a basic idea of his face, but never concrete.

Throughout all five occurrences, from what I observed, I will always stay unmovable, until 7am. Afterwards, I can only move for around 7 seconds. Although my memory tells me that the during the second body switch, I had spent more than just 7 seconds. I don't have any explanation currently at my disposal, and probably no explanation any time soon.

So far, I can never get close to finding anything, because in these 7 seconds, the most I can do is to look at his room, and maybe touch a thing or two.

And I am also assuming that the other person experiences the exact same thing as me.

I grow more and more, more and more curious.

Curious about him.

Who is he? Where is he?

Somehow, I'm desperately clinging onto him. I don't know his name, his age, his face.

Yet I want to see him. I want to hold his hands, touch his face, and hear his voice, using my own hands, and my own ears.

I want to meet him.

Right now, I am lying on my bed, staring at my blue ceiling. The blue ceiling that I had missed for five mornings. My fingers wrap around the thick blue marker, feeling oddly hyped and jittery.

I uncap it.

With my left hand, I shakily wrote the words onto my right forearm. I am right-handed, so it is inevitable that the words ended up looking really crappy. I want him to reply, if possible, so it is only right that I give him the proper space to write.

I take in a few deep breaths to calm myself down. I have to sleep.

It took me a thousand sheep to finally fall asleep.

It did not take long for me to wake up, and see the same ceiling for the sixth time.

And for the sixth time, I lift his arms.

I let it hang there for minutes, as I stare at the writing on his hands.

On his tan skin, big, red words are written, shakily, just like what I did the night before.

He is right-handed.

He thought of the same thing as me.

My chest tightens as I read the sentence. I read each word carefully, so delicately, as if they may disappear before me without warning.

I gaze upon the elegant Japanese characters. His name.

赤司 秋山

I reread the full sentence.

 _Hello, my name is Akashi Akiyama. What's yours?_

Over and over again.

Placing the left hand onto the bed, I blindly search for any writing tools. And as expected, he placed it just within reach.

I uncap the same red color marker.

* * *

I have been catching glimpses of that ceiling for five straight mornings.

I remain secretive about the body switch. Talking to my parents will bring no result, since both of them are abroad. Talking to my other friends is not the best way to go about doing it, since they will most likely treat this as a joke. Talking to Green is a confirmed no-go. He will just brush me off like that day, sarcastically, skeptically.

But still, sitting here in the library, just opposite him, isn't the best thing for my heart. Why?

Because he's staring. At me. Like a hawk. He isn't twirling his pen or pencil like he usually does. And that scares me, for many reasons.

I try to focus on looking at my book. Not a word is entering my head, and neither am I trying to let it in. I just want to avoid making eye contact with him.

"Oi." He says.

I flinch, way too obviously. I can start to feel goosebumps on my skin.

"You're reading."

Uh-huh. I say, trying to act as naturally as I can.

"You never read."

I flinch again.

I thought I should cultivate a reading habit. I say, my voice shaking. He gets intimidating quite frequently during matches, and when people piss him off. But why? Why must he look so intimidating now? Today! Of all days!

"Then why are you reading the book upside down?"

My nerves turn frozen, as I gulp nervously.

"Is it that girl? That girl from your dreams?"

It's not. I say as I awkwardly flip the book back to the right orientation.

"You've been dreaming of her. And thinking of her."

I'm not. I repeat.

"You're acting weird."

I'm not. I say, staring at the black and white pages, the words looking so squashed, the many kanji characters overlapping each other, creating a black mess in my head.

"You know she doesn't exist."

I grit my teeth.

"Oh, I see." He laughs, a smirk on his face. "She does. In your dreams."

My fingers scratch against the book cover.

"How childish."

I slam both hands onto the wooden table, my chest heaving up and down, my face muscles contorting into a series of furious expressions. Green drops open his mouth, his smirk has disappeared as he stares at me in pure surprise.

She exists. I hiss.

Green does not reply. I don't expect him to.

I swung my bag up onto my shoulders, and left him there in the library.

I head home immediately.

Night falls, and before I go to bed, I take a big fat red marker from my father's study.

I will prove that she exists.

I falter, my mind trying to choose the words carefully.

Wait, other than proving that she exists, what more do I want to accomplish after I write down the message?

As I ponder about this question, I remember myself in her body.

Her small hands.

Her sunshine yellow hair.

Her pretty drawings.

Her appearance is a blank.

Her age is a blank.

Her name is a blank.

I blink my eyes, as an unfathomable thought emerges in my mind.

I want to know more about her.

More strange thoughts come up and about, dancing in my mind, enticing me.

I want to see her.

I want to hold those small hands.

I want to hear her voice.

With these hands, eyes and ears of mine.

I grip the marker tighter than ever, and start writing down what I want to say.

Time passes by, and soon, it is the next morning.

I am staring at the blue ceiling.

I lift her slender arms.

For a long moment, I am unable to think. Unable to feel.

The words written on her right forearm. The words I wanted her to say to me.

喜美子 レフャレ

 _Hi, I'm Kimiko Lefevre. What's your name?_

Waves of relief sweep over me.

Ah. I involuntarily sigh in my mind.

She exists.

* * *

 **Blue (Female): Aoi Fujioka (青 藤岡)**

 **Green (Male): Midori Okumura (翠 奥村)**


	7. Chapter 7

_Date: Monday, 30th June_

* * *

Do you know the story of Orihime and Hikoboshi?

"Of course. It's the reason why Tanabata* exists." Aoi says. The both of us cycle down the path, a faint breeze caressing my cheeks, my long blonde hair flowing behind me.

I wonder if it really happened. I say, as I look up into the orange sky tinted with streaks of evening colors.

"Hmm?"

The two of them, separated by a river, and can only meet once every 365 days, when a flock of magpies creates a bridge for them to cross. I answer, as I cup my right hand, picturing two beings moving to the center of the makeshift "bridge", meeting right at the knuckles.

"Well, if it did not happen, then we won't get to celebrate any festival on 7 July."

But I don't want it to happen. I say honestly, as I ball my hands into a fist.

"Why?"

Because it's such a sad story.

"So in other words, it would have been better if they did not meet each other and as a result, fall in love."

I nod my head.

"You know, Yellow."

Yeah?

"Romance is a double-edge sword. You get to enjoy it, and at the same time, suffer because of it. Why do you think Orihime and Hikoboshi are willing to do anything, just to see each other for a single night?"

I say nothing.

"They exchange 364 days of every year for one night. For the sake of each other. They love each other so much that they're willing to sacrifice something. Someday, when you find your one true love, you will understand."

Then when will I find my soulmate? I ask.

"Wish for it." Aoi smiles, and she starts counting her fingers. "There's still 6 days till the Seventh of July. That night is probably your best chance at getting a wish fulfilled, since the Thousand-Year Comet and other meteors are going to be everywhere in the sky."

I've already reserved my _tanzaku*_ for another wish. I say.

"You can wish more than one."

I just want to wish for one wish. God has too many wishes to fulfill.

"Oh, you good kid. You don't have to be so considerate to God."

Then I'll wish for a second wish.

"And what is it?"

I'll wish for Orihime-sama and Hikoboshi-sama to meet each other everyday.

* * *

Do you know the story of Orihime and Hikoboshi?

"Ah, you mean that boring story." Green says as he leans against the windowsill, before he winks at a passing schoolmate, charming her almost in a millisecond. The same girl blushes violently, before she gives a short bow and hurries off.

It's not boring. Contrarily, I think it's a beautiful folktale.

"No wonder you can't get a girlfriend." He remarks as he turns to look at me. I am fingering a small piece of paper. My _tanzaku._

"Pfft. You're seriously wishing on that day? On that scrap paper?" He chuckles. I glare at him, and he quietens down instantly.

I can't say I am looking for the festival itself. More like, I just want to make a wish on that night. But of course, I don't have much confidence that a measly wish like this can come true anytime soon.

I wonder if any wish comes true on Tanabata.

"Anyways, when are you going back to the Basketball Club?" Green asks out of the blue. "It's been almost three weeks, the juniors have been bugging me to go back."

You can go back yourself. I softly say, as I roll the paper up.

"You know me, Akashi. I'll go, only if you go with me."

And I told you before, didn't I? I snap at him. I'm quitting the club.

"Why? You never tell me the reason!" He shouts, attracting the attention of many.

You don't have to know. I say.

The bell rings, telling the whole school to get ready for the next lesson.

See you. I wave my hands and head to my class.

"Red! You have to go back!" He yells.

I don't bother to turn back.

I hear his heavy footsteps travelling towards me, and soon, he places his left hand on my shoulder, forcing me to turn around.

"We are going to play basketball together." Green warns, his eyes fixated on mine.

Is this a threat? I give a smile.

"What the heck is wrong with you?" He says. "We won, didn't we? Why are you acting like this?"

I lost interest in the game. Is that enough of a reason for you?

I shrug him off, and move on.

"Red! I'll make a wish on Tanabata! That you'll love basketball again! I don't know why you don't anymore, but I will make you love the game again!"

I stop in my tracks.

Why don't you wish that my wish will come true? I say. Or even better, wish for Orihime and Hikoboshi to meet everyday, so that Tanabata will never exist again?

* * *

 _7 more days till the Night of Wishes_

* * *

 ***Tanabata: A Japanese festival that originates from the Chinese Qixi Festival (or Qiqiao), which celebrates the meeting of** **Zhinü and Niulang (China)/ Orihime and Hikoboshi (Japan), where the two are represented by Vega and Altair respectively. The first festivities starts on 7 July of the Gregorian Calender and is then held on various days in different areas of Japan for one month, until August.**

 ***Tanzaku: Japanese generally celebrate the day by writing wishes, sometimes in the form of poetry, onto these tanzakus, which are pieces of paper that will be hanged on bamboo.**


End file.
